The Truest Slytherin
by me malum
Summary: ... should never actually go into Slytherin.


_The true Slytherin goes into any house but._

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Draco Lucius Malfoy had been told from a very young age that he was going to go to Hogwarts and follow in his father's footsteps; becoming the best, the most influential leader of Slytherin that the house had ever seen. He accepted his father's words without question, and only when reflecting in old age on those early years did he recognise the look in his father's eyes for disappointment. During those tender times, he had only wanted to be just like his father, and when someone asked him, "But what do _you_ want to do?", he'd shrug, glance at the man from the corner of his eye and say, "Whatever makes him proud of me."

Hermione Jane Granger had known since she was a young girl that she wasn't quite _normal_. What made it obvious was that when her parents found out she loved to read, she smiling happily at them over the spine of her latest conquest, they couldn't see _it_. They didn't see how the pictures _moved _for her, and only her. With her eight-year old wisdom, Hermione decided it would only worry them if she told her parents the truth, and it became her first secret. One secret became many more, as she realised that without knowing how, she _knew_ things she had never seen or read in her life. She passed it off as natural intelligence, and her teachers praised her and her parents were _so _pleased with her, she forgot in time just how much she was lying to them, and let the lie become the truth.

Ronald Bilius Weasley watched, wide-eyed, as brother after brother went to that magic place every year where they were actually _allowed_ to use the gift they were born with- not like him, stuck at home and forced to learn reading and writing and history and arithmetic and absolutely _no_ spells. He'd tried, every holiday, to get _just a peek_ at the books they brought home with them- to no avail. His mum, or the brother in question (usually Percy) would move it out of his sight and say, "That's not for you, Ron." Somewhere along the line, after years of this, Ron stopped trying and decided if they didn't want him learning magic, he'd refuse to. He stopped bothering to try, no matter how much the voice in his mind told him he could be so much better if he did.

Luna Lovegood wondered less than most people about whether there was a God; where else would her special gift have come from? Her faith was first tested when mummy was taken away from her and why did daddy not seem to care about it? She'd tried _so_ hard to save mummy after what she'd seen the night before in her sleep, but nothing she tried had worked. Little Luna concluded that the Being that was up there certainly didn't care to make_ their_ lives happy, so why should she care to please _Them_? When, months later, she dreamt of castles and little blonde girls in black robes with a green crest, she swore to herself that she _would_ change it, just because she could. She began studying _fate_ and _destiny_ and read everything she could about them, and it became her goal to prove that no future was set. If she could change just this little thing now, who knew what she could do in the uncertain years to come?

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was brash and bold and full of life and magic. He would run through the streets of Godric's Hollow, laughing and smiling as his younger brother tried to catch the little fairy lights he'd conjured with chubby, child's hands. Then they'd step through the door of their family home and the chuckles would die, responsibility settling heavily on the seven-year old's shoulders. He'd hush his brother and send him upstairs, before going to his mother and asking, in a child's voice, "How is she today, mother?" Kendra Dumbledore would shrug or say (over the sound of his sister's wails) "A little better than yesterday, dear. Now run along and look after Aberforth for me." So he would read to his younger brother, and teach him his first lessons in writing and history, all the while _knowing_ that he could be so much more. He couldn't stand his sister's screaming and his brother's tears and his mother's _lying_ about it all- so he promised himself. He _would _be more. He was going to make something of himself, something the world had never seen before. And it would be all _his_, nothing to do with his family dragging him down. Nothing would stand in his way- and if something (someone) tried to, he would crush it and step happily over the smoking remains.

Neville Longbottom visited his parents once a week, the very model of the dutiful son. When he was very small, he didn't understand who the strange, quiet people were, but then his great-uncle had taken him aside and told him to be serious and respectful and wasn't he _grateful_ for what his parents had given up for him? When he grew into a big boy (he'd had ten candles on his cake! Ten!) he thought he understood what the man meant. _Normal_ families had a mum and a dad and a child and didn't live with their grandmother or their great-uncle and a toad named Trevor. On the final visit before he went to Hogwarts, he took the chewing-gum wrapper out of his mum's hand and clenched it between his two smaller ones. The woman showed no signs of discomfort no matter how hard he squeezed. "I'll make you proud," he whispered, so his other relatives wouldn't hear him. "You didn't give it up for nothing. I'll make you proud, mummy." His great-uncle had told him his parents were like this because they were too good at catching bad people. In that moment, Neville decided he'd be better. No matter what happened to him along the way, he'd make them _proud_, right up to the moment it left him in the bed next to theirs.

Tom Marvolo Riddle hated himself, hated his life and his father and his thrice-cursed mother and anyone who pitied him and tried to take care of him. He needed no friends and had no family, and it was all his fault. Then he realised he could do weird things with his hatred- things that made the other boys at the orphanage feel nearly as miserable as he did. Liking this, he nurtured the hatred and fostered it, made it stronger and stronger until _nothing _would be able to withstand it. He was too young to notice that as his hatred grew, his personality, his _soul,_ was being torn away piece by piece. By the time Albus Dumbledore found the then eleven-year old boy, he was already set on a course of self-destruction.

Harry James Potter grew used to going unnoticed. _Out of sight, out of mind_ was more than just a pithy phrase; for him, it was a way of life. He saw the attention showered on his cousin by his doting aunt and prideful uncle, and thought, _who wants that?_ It had bothered him when he was younger, but as he grew, Harry began to see the upside. Nobody noticed when he went missing for minutes at a time- just enough time to place the bag of flour on the edge of the shelves, or restack the saucepans his aunt had put away so they crashed down and woke his napping cousin up. Whereas Dudley- he couldn't _sneeze_ without becoming the immediate focus of whoever was in the room with him, and worse, he was too stupid to realise what a disadvantage it would be for him in later life. Initially, Harry had panicked when _he'd_ been singled out by Hagrid, on that dark night. What had _he_ done to finally be noticed?

People seemed to expect things of him. In Diagon Alley, the wizards had acted like he _knew _something, and should live however that knowledge told him to. When Hagrid told him the story of his parents, Harry had a good feeling what those expectations were. He didn't want to be famous! He didn't want to be in the spotlight like that, did they think he was crazy? Alarm festered right up until the moment he was led into a bright hall, with four long tables headed up by a fifth, with a raggedy old hat on a stool in front of it. While Professor McGonagall explained the sorting system and the purpose of a mouldy hat, Harry figured out that he could _do_ this. Everyone expected him to follow his parents. He would. It would put him in the spotlight. It was what he _wanted_ to put in the spotlight. _They don't care about me. They care about my title, and my story. I'll show them one day. But until then, they can have their wish. _

_They won't notice the real me until _I_ want them to._

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_Slytherin can help you on your way to greatness. The other houses can help you make sure no one sees it coming._

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Hi! New fandom and all, so would love to hear what you thought of this. It's been brewing for a while, set off by the irony that just by being in Slytherin, any dreams of world domination are less likely to come to fruition because people expect it of you and are more prepared to stop you. Similarly, they expect Slytherins to be dark, are happier to curse them and blackmouth them, maybe even kill them- yet Slytherins are meant to have self-preservation instincts? Just by joinging the house, you make yourself a target. Where does self-preservation come into that?

By the way, I own nothing. Everything you recognise is _not_ mine.

Anyway. Not sure if I'll write again for this fandom, but I hope you enjoyed the oneshot.


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